


A Chance to Try Again

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: All Route Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Post Time Skip, Pre time skip, Think of this as a depressive look at a golden route, Time Travel, focus of the work is NOT on romance, messing with time and alternate futures, references to characters dying in the past who are alive here, specifically crimson flowers spoilers, tags may be updated as work develops, warning for suicidal thoughts and depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29748795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: Years after the conquest of Adrestia, Felix finds himself thrown back in time. With this new chance, will he let things remain the same as the future he knows?Or will he use this chance to make things right?
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	A Chance to Try Again

**Author's Note:**

> I'm testing this concept that has been playing in my head for a little while. I only have the first two chapters planned out because I'm not actually sure if people will be interested. So PLEASE let me know if you like this or if I should keep going. Thank you!

It should have been concerning that Felix wasn’t feeling pain anymore. It should have been a problem that his limbs were heavy and unreliable, making it impossible to raise himself from the floor. And it probably should have been worrying that it took immense effort just to breathe, each breath as thick and slow as cold syrup. Quite possibly he could have been concerned that he couldn’t make out Byleth’s words well anymore, even though he could see her face so close and so clear even in the dim light.

But he just didn’t care anymore—no, that wasn’t right. He was . . . relieved.

“Felix,” Byleth’s voice broke into the fog, closer now as she pulled his head into her lap, “I can make this right.”

He snorted, the only thing he really had energy for now.

This _was_ right. This was the inevitable spiral that his life—that his every choice—had led to. It was the fate of a man who had turned his back on everything he’d been raised to care for and who had sworn to live only by the blade in his hands. He had to, lest he lose himself to the ghosts of his regrets.

Well, at least he’d never been unrealistic about the destiny that awaited him.

~

Death, Felix discovered, was a strange thing. He had assumed that it would be an end—a nothing, a void, a point where one couldn’t even contemplate death because they were, well, dead. The person was merely to vanish, fragments remaining only in the items they’d left behind.

In the absence of nothing, however, the darkness around him was warmth, more a comfort than anything else. It seemed to wrap around him, enveloping him like some sort of ethereal embrace. There was nowhere to be, and nowhere to go. Just him and his own mind. To be forced alone with his thoughts for eternity, well, it seemed fitting.

What he _hadn’t_ expected, however, was the fact that sounds began to grow around him—echoes of voices both familiar and foreign, of whispered words and soft movements. He hadn’t thought that an ache would resonate through his whole body, serving as a constant reminder of every injury he’d ever had in life.

He hadn’t believed that, when he opened his eyes, there would be light. _Too much_ light, in fact. He couldn’t make out what was around him, everything blurred and indecipherable among the radiance.

Felix groaned, lifting a heavy arm to cover his eyes. He’d much preferred the darkness. 

“ _Oh_!” The sound was unfamiliar and high. But close. _So_ close.

Felix’s eyes shot open, arm immediately pulling away from his face. The world was hazy, but it focused more with each blink. It was painful in its familiarity.

He knew the stonework that made up the floor above his head. Knew the sheets as they draped over his chest. Knew the feel of the pillows that his back rested against. Knew the long table that pressed against the stone walls, made of the same wood as the floor. Knew the sound of the door slamming shut just as a familiar form fled through the doorway.

He knew it, but he didn’t know _how_.

Not that it mattered. It didn’t matter how familiar a place was. This wasn’t where he had died (or, _should_ have died, he supposed). This was far too bright and warm for that—too welcoming and tempting for anything that those slithering excuses for warriors might have created.

But anywhere was a threat these days. It didn’t matter if he had helped the emperor, forsaken his title, or fought to bring order back to a war-torn realm. To many, he was still a Fraldarius. He was still kin to those who had killed their loved ones. To others—the few still lingering loyalists to the Kingdom—he was a traitor.

He glanced across the room, where a set of bandage and ointments had been left half-prepared. Right. Someone had seen him wake. He _had_ to move.

With a grunt, Felix pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the way his body protested his every twitch. Merely swinging his legs over the bed’s edge was almost too much of an effort, making him pant as he struggled to catch his breath. Even so, he forced himself to his feet. His knees gave way immediately, hands darting out to grasp onto the headboard just to stay upright.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hurt this badly. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he seriously thought he would die.

Steps echoed from outside his door, accompanied by muffled voices. They weren’t close, but they would be soon. Certainly well before he could get out of here.

His eyes fell onto a chair just opposite the doorway. His sheathed blade leaned against it, wrapped in a bloodied and shredded cloth that he assumed was once his coat.

If they were going to kill him, he was at least going to die with some semblance of dignity.

He forced one step after another, each one sending shocks of pain up through his knees. His chest burned with every breath, arms throbbing as he used the wall to stay upright. The inching movements were slow, arduous, but he _was_ going to make it. He wasn’t going to die (again) without a fight.

As his fingers wrapped around the blade, the door slammed open.

Someone shouted—impossible to decipher among the sounds of steps fast approaching—and Felix grimaced. He swung his blade in a wide arc, letting his Crest thrum through his veins.

But his blade never made contact. A firm hand wrapped around his wrist, entirely cutting off his strike. Stopping him like he was nothing more than a child throwing feeble punches. Sneer on his lips, Felix glanced up at the person who had the _audacity_ to treat him as a child and not as a warrior.

But any venomous words he had died on his tongue. A chill ran through his body, limbs going numb. Any lingering energy he’d had, any will to fight, evaporated. His sword clattered as it fell from his hands and hit the stone.

The man who had stopped him was his father. He had a serious expression on his face, not unlike the last time they’d faced each other. A single raised hand was all that halted the numerous Fraldarius soldiers behind him as they reached for their blades.

They could skewer him, for all he cared.

His father’s presence meant Felix was already dead. A shaky exhale passed his lips as the thought struck again. He was dead. Truly, without any doubt, dead.

Felix stumbled backward, immediately released from Rodrigues’ grip as his back hit the wall. The contact was like needles on the spine, but it didn’t matter. How could it? What did pain signify when one was already decreased?

“I will not hurt you.” Rodrigue said, voice soft and placating like it had been when Felix was younger—when nightmares had kept him awake and his father held him and eased him to sleep.

There was nothing that would ease _this_. Felix opened his mouth to say such, but not even words were cooperating with him. Instead, he looked away, lips pressed tightly together as if they might contain his misery.

“We found you at the edge of our territory. You were bleeding out, and nearly frozen by the snow.” His father continued. “We brought you here to heal your wounds.”

Felix’s lip twitched. The last he could remember, he was deep underground, in a city crafted from the earth itself. He’d been nowhere near snow, and certainly nowhere near Fraldarius.

“Come,” his father’s hand rested on his shoulder, frowning at Felix’s reflexive twitch, “you should return to bed.”

Death didn’t make sense, when Felix thought about it. If he was dead, there was no need for him to heal. Perhaps, he was still bleeding out in that cave—and his mind was showing him such things to try and make the transition smoother.

If that was the case, then he merely needed to bide his time before death actually took him. Just tolerate . . . whatever this was . . . until finally he could fall to eternity.

He nodded slowly, even his head heavy and cooperative.

“Good.” His father’s hand shifted to rest between his shoulders, guiding him away from the wall and back to his bed.

Felix was slow to settle in, even sitting down difficult and impossible. Frustration simmered in his veins, annoyed at how absurd it was that his body—which he had spent decades training by now—was so quick to turn on him.

He had to keep reminding himself that it didn’t matter.

Instead, he distracted himself by watching as his father dismissed his guard and the other servants from the room, ignoring their protests about danger. When the door finally closed and they were alone, he still seemed unfazed, the polite smile on his face that Felix had always loathed.

His steps were casual, entirely at ease. He lifted Felix’s sword from the floor, thumb running over the blade as he looked it over. He was slow as he returned the sword to its sheath, letting it rest against the corner as he took the chair for himself and brought it by the bed. Even that movement was cautious, though, as if he was afraid he’d startle Felix.

Funny, considering what Felix had done to him.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Rodrigue said, hands folded in his lap, “how did you end up in a such a state out there?”

Felix grunted. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie, at least. He could recall that he and Byleth had journeyed to Hrym under the Emperor’s orders. They had been stamping out the remnants of ‘Those Who Slither”—an inane name that Hubert had surely given them merely to be dramatic. They were hardly a challenge anymore, not with him and Byleth hunting them for years.

And it hadn’t been so different then. He and Byleth were skilled in dealing with their dark magic and general battle prowess. Killing the man was hardly any challenge.

But then the city itself turned against them. He’d taken a hit for Byleth, protecting her from some strange machine. They kept fighting till even those things were no more but . . . the wound had been deeper than anticipated. He had survived the fight, but he knew he would not make it much longer past that.

But after that . . .

“I see.” That stupid smile was still on his face. “Before that, then?”

Felix exhaled slowly. This dream was inane. As if his father would care what Felix had done—no, that wasn’t right. He’d probably have wanted him to say that he somehow managed to take on his role, even under Edelgard’s rule. Likely would have said something to the effect of ‘as long as the people do not suffer, then I can face the king’ or something stupid like that.

That Felix’s dream was humoring him with this was absurd.

“I’m a mercenary.” He said instead, glancing over at his sword again. A truth that probably would have had his old man infuriated, if he’d lived to see it.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was lying. He _was_ a mercenary. Even if he’d fought for Edelgard, he couldn’t stomach working to bring her vision to life. He couldn’t act like a noble beneath her, facing his people like he hadn’t willfully betrayed them. He couldn’t work with people who had taken on the roles of his oldest friends. He did not believe that he would be haunted by their ghosts—they were too far gone for that—but he did believe that memories sparked by absence would haunt him all the same.

But he still _did_ work with the emperor on occasion. Usually when it came to the Slithering forces, when Hubert would rather knowledge of them remain in the shadows. And, most of the time, it was only when Byleth personally asked it of him.

The pay was enough to survive, and that was really all that mattered.

His father prodded further, still playing oblivious. “Hired, I assume?”

“Was.” Even if he was nowhere near the place now, he _had_ finished his job. It was probably just a pay lost. “I had a job in Hrym.”

“That’s quite far from here.”

“I know.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know how I got here.”

Trying to remember just left a dull throb in the back of his head. He could recall bleeding out. He could remember Byleth’s face. Then nothing. And that nothing _hurt._

“A shame.” Rodrigue leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I had hoped we may be able to rule out the chance of you being a spy. It’s not been of any concern for years, but . . .” Suddenly, Rodrigue froze up, his entire body tense. His eyes widened, the smile fading into a thinly pressed line.

Before Felix could even ask why, the man jolted from his seat, hand slamming into Felix’s shoulder to pin him. Fingers curled into his collar, absurdly pulling even as he pressed Felix more and more into the bed.

Felix gasped at the pain, hands feebly trying to pry his father’s hands off him. But it was pointless; even in his best state, he was hardly any match for his father. He’d only been able to kill him with a group of soldiers behind him and sheer dumb luck. Now though, injured and exhausted, he stood no chance.

Rodrigue stared down at him, fingers slowly moving away from his collar but no less pinning him.

“Who are you?” The man breathed.

Felix froze, struggle stopping entirely.

It wasn’t possible. If it was a dream, then there was no way his father wouldn’t know him. But if it was death, then there was no way his father would waste his time caring for him. There was no way his father wouldn’t recognize the man who’d killed him.

And it wasn’t like he’d degraded _that_ much. True, he was hardly in his best state. He’d done enough to survive, forced by Byleth when he’d slipped into darker and more self-destructive moments. He had far more scars now than then—for what did a nick matter when the cause was dead—but it wasn’t like he was mangled by it. Perhaps the circles beneath his eyes were more prominent than they had once been, but he couldn’t really be blamed when he kept seeing _them_ in his sleep. And he’d let his hair grow long in a way that he had sworn against in his youth—wanting to look nothing like his father or brother—but hair wasn’t much of an identifier anyway.

So why didn’t his father recognize him?

When he didn’t answer, his father’s hand went to the blade at his side, the other still pinning him in place.

Felix’s veins felt like ice. His father’s sword was still at his side, a duplicate to the one Felix had. It was _impossible_ for the man to have it. There was only one in the word: a gift from the king. Felix had coveted it as a child, but now it primarily stood as a constant reminder of what he had done, the further weight of his burdens. He had, after all, taken it from his father’s body before he’d buried it.

And _his_ was still there against the wall—sitting there, mocking him.

“I had thought it impossible, a coincidence,” Rodrigue’s voice was soft, unsteady, as his thumb brushed over a cluster of freckles on Felix’s collarbone, “but you are my son, aren’t you?”

Felix scowled. It was obvious, wasn’t it? What _wasn’t_ obvious, though, was how there could be _two_ one-of-a-kind swords.

The door to the room slammed open. “I had thought you foolish,” a familiar voice snarled, footsteps heavy and distinct, “but _never_ a fool.”

“Ah, Felix.” Rodrigue pulled away, instead turning to face the intruder.

To face Felix—a far younger Felix.

Felix stared at himself. He knew that person, had known the face that used to stare back at him in the mirror. It was interesting to be on this side of his ire. And, if he knew himself, positively infuriating to his younger doppelganger that his glares didn’t phase him.

“You let a stranger in,” his younger self hissed, “and _now,_ you are here with him alone. How foolish can you be?”

Perhaps it was more infuriating to him that his father was equally unfazed. “I doubt I have much to fear from a man who can barely rise from bed.”

The younger Felix’s lip curled, fists clenching at his sides. He was considering something venomous, Felix knew, but hadn’t quite grasped it.

Not that it was undeserving. It was stupid to let a stranger in and to care for them. To be alone with them was even more foolish. But his father had always made such choices, more prone to being philanthropic in his king’s name than sensible regarding the safety of his people.

“Besides,” Rodrigue continued, before either Felix had the chance to speak, “I believe he is one of my brother’s sons.”

“He _what_?” The younger snarled, his words more than loud enough to cover the sound of Felix nearly choking on his own surprise. “My uncle has no sons.”

Rodrigue smiled. “He was . . . hm . . . reckless in his youth. It would be of little surprise to me.”

“He’s _lying_.”

“I find that unlikely. I’ve seen his Crest for myself.” His father was completely unfazed as both of his sons twitched. “And, as I was exceedingly loyal to your mother—”

“Hmph. Do what you want.” The younger growled, turning on his heel. “I won’t suffer for your stupidity.”

The door slammed before his father could scold him for his rudeness. In his absence, the room fell to silence once more. Rodrigue rubbed his face—no doubt something he did often the moment Felix was out of sight.

But it didn’t matter. Clearly, Felix wasn’t dead. He’d somehow wound up in the past. Not a replacement for himself. Not even here to relieve it. Just . . . here. Here before things had gone to hell—no, before he had even been in a place where they _could_ go to hell.

He exhaled roughly, shifting to curl his fingers around the headboard as he tried to lift himself up.

“What are you doing?”

“That was a shallow lie.” Felix muttered. Few would believe he was his uncle’s son, and it would crumble the moment anyone thought to ask the man. And the moment they learned the truth, Rodrigue would be condemned for it. “I’m leaving before it becomes a burden.”

“But . . . this is your home.”

Felix let out a breath before forcing himself to his feet once more. It was worse this time, agonizing like his muscles were tearing themselves apart. It was his fault for not bothering to study Faith, he supposed. “Not anymore.”

As he stepped across the room once more to grab his sword, he was stopped by a firm grip on his arm. Fingers pressed in a way that would certainly leave bruises. “Where will you go?”

“I’m a mercenary.” Felix muttered, trying to pull his arm away, but to no avail. “Wherever has work.”

He doubted he would make it that far. In this shape, he’d probably collapse in the snow once more, dyeing it crimson with the last of his life. It was hard to care. At least then he’d finally find rest.

“You could work here.” His father’s voice was uncharacteristically soft.

“ _Not_ here.” Felix tried to pull away once more.

“ _Felix_.” A sharp tug pulled Felix backward, spinning him around to face his father. Both hands rested heavily on his shoulders, fingers digging into the skin there. The look on his face was dark in a way that Felix had never seen. “What happened to you?”

There were so many things he could say. He’d turned his back on his friends, his family, his people. He’d killed more of his countrymen than he could count. He’d personally bore the deaths of the people he cared about most. He had a hand in the death of the goddess’ messengers and her church. He wandered the land as a mercenary, doing only what was necessary to survive.

It had been so easy to be cruel to his father in his youth. So easy to say things that he knew would hurt, in the hopes that it would force his father to feel as he did. But even the thought left a hollow ache in his chest now.

But if he didn’t say nothing, his father would want him to stay. And, in truth, he knew he didn’t deserve that. He deserved to be alone in the snow, waiting for the day oblivion would finally come to him at the end of a blade.

“The last time I saw my father,” he muttered, unable to look the man in the eyes, “I’d left him bleeding out in Arianrhod.”.

He’d expected to either be killed or expelled from Fraldarius, and yet his father surprised him again. He gripped Felix’s shoulders firmer, using the hold to pull him close in a firm embrace. A hand rested between his shoulders, another just at the nape of his neck—holding him like he was some precious thing.

Felix couldn’t even respond, as if his mind couldn’t even fathom the reality. He’d remembered his father’s face back then—couldn’t get it out of his mind. Rage, hatred, disappointment. The gaze of a man who had raised his son to take his place, to keep his country safe—only for the boy to actively destroy everything as he cut his own father down.

Still, his hands came up as if on instinct, his fingers gripping into his father’s cloak. His face pressed against his father’s shoulder, as if it was too much to try and hold himself right. He wasn’t crying—he couldn’t remember the last time there were actual tears from his eyes—but his chest ached with it all the same.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, as if _this_ was the man he had killed and buried.

“Maybe the goddess is giving you another chance.” Rodrigue whispered, slowly pulling away and offering a smile. A _real_ smile.

Felix snorted. He’d been among those who’d wanted to eradicate the rule of the goddess from this world. Why, of anyone, would she want to help _him_?

“Regardless of reason,” a gentle nudge urged Felix back to bed, “you should rest here. I would not forgive myself if you left here still unwell.”

Felix forced himself still just at the edge of the bed. “Why are you doing this?”

Another nudge, though at least kind in its insistence. “I told you—”

“I’m not a child.” Felix muttered, glancing back at his father. “ _Why?_ ”

Rodrigue laughed, shaking his head. “Let’s say . . . a father does not need a reason to help his son.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please feel free to reach out to me on Twitter! [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming).


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